Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
In the back of his mind, he pictured himself going down to Caldwell and finding the drug dealers who had gone lead shower on each other and caught a couple of vampires in the crosshairs. All he’d need was the address of that corner Tohr and John had come around. The territories in Caldie were delineated with precision and defended like the gold mines they were, so he’d just have to show up, search the memories of whoever was there—and take care of business the symphath way.
The problem? And it was a biggie: John Matthew was a Brother, and the Black Dagger Brotherhood would be the ones doing the ahvenging. It wasn’t just a matter of deference to their relationship to the victim; it was law, as in codified.
As a kindling fury nonetheless took root in Rehv’s blood, and the large muscles in his body spasmed like he was about to do something, he had to walk away from V and the others. The next thing he knew, he was in one of the vacant patient rooms. After pacing around, he went over to the hospital bed. With an exhale of disgust, he shoved his hand into the pocket of his double-breasted suit and took out a syringe and a little glass bottle with a rubber top. After he tossed his jacket onto the short stack of pillows, he unsheathed the needle, drew up a serving of self-control, and put the belly of the syringe between his front teeth. Rolling up his sleeve, he exposed the blue veins at the crook of his elbow, and he didn’t waste any time. He injected the dopamine directly into his body’s highway system.
The effect was quick, a whoosh of numbness going through him, his balance taking a knock such that he had to sit down next to his jacket. As the pads of his fingers went numb along with his feet, the tide continued up his limbs and spread throughout his torso.
Goddamn, he was cold already. He needed to go back and get his mink so his lips and nail beds didn’t turn blue.
This was not how he’d envisioned the evening going.
And he was not the only one.
TWELVE
AT 7:01 THE following morning, C.P. Phalen was shown into a conference room on the seventy-fifth floor of a skyscraper in Houston, Texas. Unlike most of the business environments she’d been to in the Lone Star State, the decor was sleek, the furniture modern and simple, the palette a blend of soft grays and cream. There was no art on the walls, no crystal dangling from ceiling fixtures, no gold leaf, marble, or mirrors.
“Would you care for coffee while you wait?” a voice inquired in a European accent.
She glanced back at the executive assistant. The dark-haired young man was probably mid-twenties, his suit was definitely Italian, and that accent was the result of a German being taught English by a Brit. Cologne was French. So were the shoes.
“No, thank you.”
The kid bowed at the waist and exited by backing up. The door was shut quiet as a whisper.
C.P. went over to the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. The morning traffic was still moving pretty well on the highway, lines of cars paring off at exits to funnel out onto the surface roads, the parking lots and garages just starting to fill up. The urban landscape could have been that of any city, the skyscrapers and office buildings gleaming in the early sunlight, the strips of asphalt dull tracks that formed boxes around the real estate.
C.P. checked her watch.
She had flown in on her plane and landed thirty-eight minutes ago. The disembarkment and car ride over from Hobby Airport had taken twenty-one minutes. Then she had waited fourteen minutes in the SUV before entering this building, checking in with security, and riding up the express elevator, which skipped floors two through fifty-five. The pro forma greeting with Pharmatech’s executive receptionist had taken three minutes, and then she had waited for only a couple of heartbeats for the executive assistant to bring her down here. The fact that there was staff on deck so early was not a surprise given how much work the company did with Japanese investors—
Behind her, the door opened, and in the glossy panes, she caught the reflection of the man who entered the conference room.
Pivoting back around, she said, “You’re late.”
Gunnar Rhobes, CEO of Pharmatech, shut them in and made a show of unbuttoning his pin-striped double-breasted jacket as he came forward. His suit was also Italian and so were his shoes. His attitude was gift-from-God.
“You were early,” he said in the same accent as the assistant.
“I was on time.”
Pulling out the leather chair at the head of the table, he sat down and crossed his legs knee to knee. Then he steepled his fingers and stared at her over the manicured tips. He was a lean man, but not because he was unwell. He was a triathlete, an internationally ranked amateur, even though he was how old? Forty? As a result, his already narrow features were whittled down to the point where he had hollows in his cheeks, under his jaw, and on either side of his windpipe. Adding to the austere look, his skin was leathery and prematurely aged, like he never wore sunscreen while he trained outdoors, and his hair was cut so short that it was but a shadow over his skull.